


Sometimes It's the Scent

by brisingrdraumar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Good Peter, Hale!feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brisingrdraumar/pseuds/brisingrdraumar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek hated it here. The <i>smells</i>. It smells like defeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Found You There

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to my lovely beta, [Jadecorpsebride](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jadecorpsebride/pseuds/jadecorpsebride).

Derek stood outside the nursing home, bracing himself. He hated it here. Everything is overwhelming in this place: the fluorescent lights, the beeping and whirring of the machines, the _smells_. It smells like defeat. Like death. The stink of piss and vomit and the overpowering odor of antiseptic crowd his senses and pound at him like an instant headache whenever he comes here. It’s not like the place is dirty, far from it, actually. He and Laura made damn sure that this was the best establishment for miles. Some things just don’t scrub out, though. Derek knows that. He _knows_ that this is the best. That doesn’t make him hate it any less.

He can handle the tidal wave of emotion within him better than he can handle the scents. He’s gotten good with dealing with his emotions; he’s gotten good with beating them, suppressing them, chaining them against his soul so they can’t escape. Most of the time he handles everything just fine, but it seems like every time he comes here they get let loose just a little. It was never enough for him to lose complete control, and never enough for a real catharsis, but just enough to make him ache and hurt for days. He really hated it here, but if he could, he would spend every hour of every day right in this building.

Derek took a deep breath of the fresh air, and walked inside. He kept his head down, eyes trained to the floor so he wouldn’t have to speak to anyone. It’s been long enough by now that the staff here knows not to bother him. Most of them anyway. As he makes his way down the west wing to room 414, he shoves his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders in just a little as if he was cold.

Stopping at the open door, he looked in. Uncle Peter is sitting there in his wheelchair in front of the window like he is every day.

“Hi, Derek!”

He cringed at the sunny voice and turned to look at the speaker, “Nurse Daniels,” he gave a gruff nod. “Any changes?”

Her face contorted into this warring combination of affection and pity, and Derek can’t help but think that she doesn’t have the right to look at him like that, “No, Derek. He needs time. He’s healing more and more every day, but it’s slow. Certainly faster than it would be if he wasn’t…you know. But still slow.”

Derek just nods again, keeping his growl low enough that her human ears couldn’t hear. He never really agreed with telling her, he certainly doesn’t agree with telling _anyone_ anymore, but it wasn’t his call to make. She serves a purpose, refilling the herbs to place around the door frame to block out the majority of the subtle smells from the rest of the facility, deflecting doctors when Uncle Peter heals “too fast”, making sure his blood is never drawn. Derek knows that there needed to be _someone_ to help take care of his uncle while he and Laura were in New York, but it makes him uncomfortable. It will probably always make him uncomfortable.

He just nods one more time, he’s nothing if not consistent, and walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. He walked over to his uncle and put his hands on the thin shoulders, kneading for a moment. Derek unlocked the breaks on the wheel chair and moved him across the room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Derek pulls Peter in close enough to touch; loosely closing a hand around one slender wrist, he starts talking.

“Hey, Uncle Peter. I’m uh…I’m still looking for that alpha. I haven’t found him yet, but people keep dying, so I have to keep looking. Not that I wouldn’t anyway, not with what happened to Laura,” he looked down, “Sorry. I’m sorry. That nurse said I’m not supposed to distress you. Something about chi, or chai, or chakras or something, I don’t really know. Laura took yoga, she could tell you,” He took a deep breath, “Fuck,” He ran a hand through his hair whispering, “I suck at this.”

He looked into his uncle’s eyes, “I’m going to find him. I’ll fix all of this, ok? I will. Then I’m going to get an apartment or something, something on the first floor so it’s easy for us to get to, and we’ll have somewhere sort of permanent. Until you get better. I’m still staying at hom—,” he clears his throat, “staying at the house. But that’s just temporary until I can figure out everything that’s going on here. I know I tell you this every day, but I’ll get you out of this _fucking place_. It just might take a while. There’s this dumb as shit kid who got turned by that alpha and all he can think about is his stupid _Argent_ girlfriend. He doesn’t know how they are, yet. He’ll learn one way or another. I’m going to try to help him, though. That’s what Laura would do.” He cleared his throat again.

Squeezing the wrist in his hand, he kept talking, “Maybe later he can be Pack? We can make a new pack. It won’t be the same,” he hated the way his voice broke on that word, “but it can still be good. In a different way. We can make it good. And I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. And as soon as this is all over, I’ll hound Deaton until he has _something_ we can do. I’m going to let him poke and prod at you until he knows how to make you better again. It’s not like you can say no, right?” The joke is weak, and even he doesn’t laugh at it. He coughs and looks down.

He stared at their hands on the arm rest of the wheelchair, “I don’t really know what to do, to be honest.” He looked back up, “There are a couple of kids I can talk to, get some intel on the whole situation, maybe even some help: that new beta and his human friend. They’re only about 16, but I’m really just looking anywhere at this point. Maybe they can help…” Derek rolled his eyes and huffed, “Yeah, help. Maybe if they stay still long enough for me to actually _talk_ and if they quit getting me arrested, those annoying little _shits_.”  

There was a minute tensing around Peter’s eyes, just enough to deepen the crinkles at the unmarred corner of his left. It was so small, and so quick, that most would have missed it. Most wouldn’t have even noticed, and if they did then most would have disregarded it as something irrelevant. Most can shut the hell up, because Derek wasn’t _most_ and _most_ wasn’t here. Derek saw, and Derek knew. He knew it meant that his uncle was laughing at him, he could tell by the way his next breath had left his nose: quick and sudden like Peter was trying to snort at him and the fact that a couple of 16 year old boys kept getting him in trouble.

It was different than what he thought it would feel like when he finally got a reaction from his uncle. He thought it would be like a punch to the throat or like getting his ribs broken. He thought he would lose his breath and he would crumble to his knees. It was a lot less like that, and a lot more like a gentle press against his heart. Like a hug from his mom, or a nap on the couch with his baby sister asleep on his chest. It was less like physical sensation and more like home, but it still hurt.

He brought his hand up and gently touched the inner corner of Peter’s left eyebrow and he followed the hairs, tracing them slowly. When his fingers finally touched the outer corner, he ran them back into Peter’s hair and replaced them with his thumb, hand cradled against the unscarred side of his face. He brought his other hand up to the back of Peter’s head and leaned up to press his lips against his uncle’s hairline. The skin there is rough and covered with scars, and it smelled like char and pain and rage. His hair smelled like the heavy duty shampoo given out by the nursing home and the man himself was completely unresponsive. Derek moved in closer, lips still pressed against his uncle’s head, giving him a firm kiss and he sobs. One sob and it feels suspiciously like joy for the first time since…just since. Because under rough scars and the scent of hurt and chemicals, he still feels and smells like Peter, like Pack, and it hurts so bad, but it’s also wonderful.

For the first time since he got to Beacon Hills, even with his daily visits here, his crushing loneliness fades; just for a moment, but it’s almost enough. Derek will make it be enough. He has to.

He doesn’t mind so much that the storm inside him got free a bit, this time. It still reminds him of everything he has lost, and everything that he will never have and never be. It still _aches_. Derek knows pain, he can handle pain. This is new, though; it’s sweet and it cuts deeper, hurts more. Before, he thought that bone deep is the farthest it could go, but this. This breaks his bones open and crawls inside them, mixing with his marrow and falling into his soul and it’s the most beautiful agony he’s ever felt.

Derek stayed like that, half standing/half crouched above the bed, face buried in Peter’s hair, hands gently clutching his head. He breathed in deep, ignoring the strain in his back and matching his breaths to his uncle’s. His Pack’s.  His _Pack_.

He sniffed, hating himself for the wetness clinging to his eyelashes. He shuffled his feet, trying to maneuver the wheelchair without letting go of his uncle. Getting frustrated, Derek finally dropped his hands and stood up. He was torn for a moment, before growling and making up his mind. He’s going to be selfish, he didn’t deserve it, but he’s going to take it anyway. Fitting an arm underneath Peter’s knees and one behind his back, he lifted his uncle free of the chair, and laid him down on his side on the small bed.

Derek lifted Peter’s arm and crawled under it, placing his head on his chest and curling the pliant limb around him. He wrapped his own arm around Peter and let out a breath that was more whine than air, burying his face in his uncle’s shirt. He brought his hand down to grab at Peter’s other arm, fitting his uncle’s hand in his palm and playing with his fingers as he took in deep, shaky breaths, a suspiciously high note at the end of every exhale. He toyed with his uncle’s hand like he used to do when he was a child.

He remembered looking for Peter during lightning storms and after nightmares, feeling lonely when Laura got to leave with his parents and he had to stay home, or just because he felt like it. He remembered going to him and grabbing his hand, fitting two of his uncle’s fingers in his palm and moving them back and forth, the repetitive motion and the simple contact comforting. Peter was always there, would always open his arms and let Derek crawl in, let him play with his fingers, twisting and twining his own through them to distract himself from whatever he was feeling at the time. That Peter was still there made sense to Derek in a way that nothing did anymore, and Derek selfishly let himself have this one thing.

Derek curled tighter into his uncle’s chest and, like he hasn’t since before Kate, showed his belly to someone, barring his throat and trusting wholeheartedly in this one man that for once this won’t end in sorrow.


	2. You Found Me Here

It’s been 13 weeks since Lydia dragged Jackson back into himself, 12 weeks since the Alpha Pack reared its ugly head, 8 since the Beacon Hills wolves were able to depose the alphas, and 3 weeks since Erica and Boyd came back, tails between their legs.  It’s easier to measure in weeks and happy occasions than it is anything else. It sounds so much better to say “it’s been 12 weeks since we chased the Alphas off,” than to say “it’s been 3 months since a string of corpses led us to the alphas like so many breadcrumbs for us to follow.” Derek is good at lying by omission to himself. He’s been doing it for years.

They finally have some down time now. 3 weeks since the return of the “Prodigal Puppies,” as Stiles calls them. Those two are still in “the doghouse,” as Stiles likes to point out. Stiles has taken to calling Boyd “Vernon” because he knows it pisses him off, and even when prompted he refuses to call Erica “Catwoman”. It seems like their abandonment has affected him just like it has the rest of the pack. Derek has spent a lot of time thinking about Stiles, it seems. About Stiles and about how Stiles feels about things; especially how he feels about the pack and his place within it. Derek doesn’t really like to think about the fact that he thinks about Stiles, so he doesn’t. Lies of omission and all that.

Stiles is across the room, talking to Scott and Boyd, “Dude, all I’m saying is that you can’t say that you don’t like Superhero movies if the only one you’ve seen is the George Clooney _Batman_ , okay? NOBODY likes Batnipples, Vernon. Nobody.”

The three boys walk out, and Derek watches them go, listening to their progress until he hears the Jeep rumble down the gravel driveway. Sighing heavily, he looks at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fingers over and over again when he feels the sofa cushion beside him dip as Peter takes a seat.

The older man smirks at him and leans against the opposite arm of the couch, lounging as he looks at Derek, “When are you going to make your move? That tasty little morsel of humanity isn’t going to stay unattached for long, you know. Someone might…snatch him up. Right from underneath your nose, if you aren’t careful.”

Derek turns a weak glare to Peter, more annoyed than angry, “Never.”

Peter actually looks shocked for once, Derek is surprised to see. The older man sits up and leans forward, “What do you mean ‘never’? You’re clearly interested. Any fool with a nose can tell _he_ reciprocates. It’s like a match made in hormonal youth heaven. It would be good for you. He’s all...” Peter makes vague motions with his hands, “vibrant and saucy. Maybe he would make you brood less. The rest of us can only take so much of your aggressive eyebrows before we start worrying your face will get stuck that way.”

This glare has a bit more heat to it than the previous one did, “I _mean never._ He’s 17 years old, Peter,” Derek fixes his eyes ahead steadily, carefully not looking at Peter, “He’s basically a child still.”

Peter scoffs, “He’s 17; I think what you meant is that he’s _basically_ an adult.”

When Derek grumbles and moves to get up, Peter stops him with a hand on his shoulder, “What’s the actual problem?”

His eyes go wide when he’s pushed against the back of the couch, Derek growling and snarling, eyes flashing. Derek gets in close, not wanting to be misunderstood again, “I. Will _not_. Do that to him. I will not have him get caught up in a relationship with an older man who would bring more harm to him and his family than good. I **_refuse_** to be that—I just refuse to be _that_.”

The hairs at the back of Peter’s neck stood on end at Derek’s tone, and when he was finally released when Derek pulled away, they sat there in silence for a few moments. It was Peter who finally, softly broke the tension, “You aren’t Kate, Derek. You’re nothing like her. You must know that.”

Everything seemed to stop. Derek’s head flew up, eyes wide, a cold sweat beginning to break out on his skin. Later he could have sworn he felt time and space breaking down, letting him hear those few words over and over again in the span of, what seemed like, seconds and infinity all at once. When he finally spoke, he had to try a few times to get his hoarse voice past his lips, “What did you just say?”

Noticing the change in his nephew, Peter decided to tread softly, “I said you aren’t Kate. You won’t be Stiles’ downfall. Actually, I think you would be quite good for the boy.”

Peter looked at the damage Derek was unconsciously inflicting on the sofa cushion with his claws, and sighed, “That _is_ what this is about isn’t it? You think that you will do to him what she did to you. I’m telling you that you won’t. Even half mad and dying* I could see that you wouldn’t have. Hell, fully mad and _dead_ I would have known,” he quirked an eyebrow and shrugged, “fully mad and dead I _did_ know. Or would have had I thought about it. Which I might have,” he smirked.

That smirk quickly fell away, because for the first time since that emotional visit at the nursing home, Peter saw his nephew cry. Betrayal, torture, near death, abandonment, scorn, and misjudgment garnered little more than a glare, a heavy sigh, or a howl. Peter couldn’t understand why the floodgates broke _now_ of all times. After everything Derek has been through, this conversation is what breaks him. He watched as Derek sat there; the boy didn’t even seem to know that his cheeks were wet as he stared wide-eyed at his uncle.

“You—you _know_ about that?” The whisper was almost not even there, but Peter heard it, of course he did.

“Well…not _details_.” He raised an eyebrow, but even that slight dig couldn’t get a different reaction out of Derek. It was like the younger man was stuck in a state of pained horror, tears sporadically still trailing across his cheeks and getting caught in the hair there when he started to shift.

“You know, though. You know about Kate. About how I—how we—how I let her. If you know, why haven’t you _done_ anything? Why haven’t you killed me? Why did you kill all of them and leave me here? You slaughtered everyone involved and you left me here, why?” Derek spoke through clenched teeth, grinding his jaws together like the pain from his fangs on his soft inner mouth flesh could ground him.

Peter stared slack-jawed for a moment as the younger man shook, “You—thought I didn’t know about her? Don’t be an idiot, Derek, _of course_ I knew about her! I knew _everything_! I found out _everything_. I knew who to go after, when to attack. I knew their names, where they lived, who they were fucking, what they ate for breakfast. I knew _everything_. And you thought I didn’t know that Kate used and abused you? I knew exactly what she did and who she did it with, and you thought that I didn’t know _how_ she did it? Honestly?”

Peter was unprepared for the roar when it came, so close to him that it shook his bones and made his teeth rattle in his gums. It wasn’t his typical ‘I’m the alpha now’ roar. It was…agony. Pure and simple, “ _IF YOU KNEW THAT I **MURDERED OUR FAMILY** WHY AM. I. Still… **Here**_?” what began as almost thunder given voice, petered out into words so strained it was like they had to claw their way past Derek’s lips.

The air in Peter’s lungs escaped in a sudden huff and he brought a hand to his face, covering his eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the other man any longer, “You thought…that I couldn’t _possibly_ know about your ‘relationship’ with Kate, because if I did I would have killed you along with her and her lackeys. You thought that I would have put you in the ground with them for the death of our family? That’s—that’s what you’ve thought.”

Derek shut his eyes, waiting for…whatever, really. Whatever was to come, because he knew that no matter what it was, he deserved it. He wouldn’t fight, he wouldn’t back away. He would let his uncle have this retribution.

He was so caught up in this mental moment that he didn’t hear the exasperated muttering coming from the other end of the couch, “Well, doesn’t this just explain more than it fucking doesn’t?”

Derek spared a thought for Stiles as he felt the cushions dip and bend as Peter leaned closer; he thought about his sarcasm, his humor, the pale arch of his throat, and the bow of his lips. He felt a brief pang at never really knowing all of the boy’s beauty. He felt hands on his jaw, fingers curving around his neck and the base of his skull, and waited for the sharp twist to come, the snap of his neck, or the flash of claws through his throat.

What he got was a soft pressure at his hairline, once, twice, and again. The puff of breath on his forehead as his uncle shudders through one quiet sob against Derek’s forehead. Derek is stuck, struck dumb and trying to comprehend what is happening to him as Peter leans back against the arm of the sofa again and pulls his nephew with him, cradling the younger man to him. He keeps one hand in Derek’s hair, keeping his head pressed to his chest, the other hand he twines with Derek’s: fitting two of his own fingers in each of his nephew’s palms, just like they used to do when Derek was a boy.

Peter finger combed through Derek’s hair until the younger man calmed down enough to shift back, and spoke quietly into his ear, “You did not murder our family.”

Derek flinched and tried to sit up, but Peter held firm. He could break away, he was still the alpha after all, but he found that his heart wasn’t in it. If truth be told, he missed this, “I told her. Everything. She asked about my family and my home and I just told her every little detail I could remember. Every secret, every hiding place, every and any insignificant piece of information I thought I could impress her with. At the end she knew _everything._ ”

Peter hummed, he knew how it went. He knew what happened, and hearing Derek say it didn’t change his feelings on the matter. He sat there for a moment, sighed, and then broke the silence “I killed Laura. I was mostly comatose, but I could feel an alpha in the area. Nurse Daniels helped me get to where I needed, helped lure Laura where I wanted. It was easier to get around on the full moon, my body just behaving on its own with the slightest provocation. At the time, I didn’t care how easy it was to find her. All I wanted was the alpha mantle. I wanted to heal faster, be stronger, be able to buy vengeance for our suffering with the blood of those who committed it. I bit her, I killed her, and the Argents found her and cut her in half,” his voice broke on the last word and he could hear the small, broken noises coming from the boy against him, reminding him just how young Derek was when he lost everything. “Imagine my surprise when, weeks later, I realized just which alpha I stole the mantle from. Why my darling Derek started visiting me and all alone at that, and why sweet Laura was absent. There were three of us left, and I killed our alpha.

“You helped Kate in her mission to wipe out the Hales. Unknowingly, and unintentionally, of course. It’s impossible to know for sure if she would have been as successful or not without your influence. But it is for certain that she would have kept trying, regardless of your unwilling aid or not. I _know_ what murder is, Derek. You did _not_ murder our family. _Kate_ murdered our family.”

Derek thought about that for a moment. Thought about how Peter so easily admitted to killing Laura. So much has changed in the older man, and under his sarcasm, his patronizing eye-rolls, his innuendos and his schemes…underneath all that, Derek could still see his uncle. Maybe see is the wrong word, maybe it’s the smell and the feel. Peter still smells and _feels_ like pack. Maybe if Derek learns how to forgive himself, he could forgive Peter too. It would be nice to have this closeness all the time. Not just when he hits rock bottom like this.

“I’m sorry,” Derek was tense as he says those words. He hasn’t ever apologized for what he’s done. He never had anyone to apologize to, Laura didn’t know, and he thought Peter didn’t either. It’s almost like he has a belt wrapped tight around his chest, and with those two words it was loosened. Just a bit, though, one notch looser maybe, but it’s progress, and Derek hasn’t had a whole lot of that in a while.

Peter sighed and combed his fingers through Derek’s hair, grimacing as his nails got caught in the gel in the hair above Derek’s forehead, “I know. And believe it or not, but so am I, Derek. For what it’s worth.”

Sitting up, Derek ran a hand down his face and looked at Peter, “Honestly? It’s worth more than I thought it would be.”

That got him a soft smile and a clap on the shoulder, “Thank you,” Peter made a face when his fingers stuck to Derek’s shirt and he held them up to his nephew’s face with a raised eyebrow, “Less is more, dear boy,” and he tugged sharply on Derek’s rigidly attentive forelock.

Derek laughed, grateful for the break in the tension, and Peter grinned when his hand was batted away, “Now, about that Stilinski boy—” suddenly Derek wasn’t so grateful anymore.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> *--"half mad and dying" is from _Wild Magic_ by Tamora Pierce (said by Numair Salmalin)
> 
> If you find errors, please don't hesitate to let me know.
> 
> I love hearing your thoughts, and I try to respond to every comment. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Hit me up on [my Tumblr](http://aconitebite.tumblr.com) if you so desire :)


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